The moment of lifting your hands above the keys, floating in that space when the butterflies in your stomach finally pause in awe of a power you don't understand: the moment you raise your voice and they listen... Semi-autobiographical.

A candle perched on the corner of his desk, throwing light off the walls and daring to approach the shadows under his eyes. Quivering over the parchment, his pen lands at last to sketch another set of bar lines and a minute's worth of notes.

Whispering a desperate incantation before a mother I never knew, I imagine Mary purses her lips in disappointment, wondering why I've bothered to collapse on my knees in a puddle on the side of the street and call her now,